


House Arrest

by overratedantihero



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Midnighter (Comics), Midnighter and Apollo (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Cuddling, Dick is Sick, Dubious Lab Protocol, Fluff, M/M, Non Explicit and Non Sexual Nudity, Quarantine, Sick fic!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 02:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14885502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overratedantihero/pseuds/overratedantihero
Summary: After an unhappy lab accident, Dick is placed under quarantine. Bruce calls in assistance.





	House Arrest

**Author's Note:**

> I like to write Dick suffering, and I didn’t have cell service or internet for three days while I galavanted in the Arctic. Enjoy the fruits of my isolation.

Since becoming Robin and subsequently Nightwing, Dick had grown familiar with labs. He and Bruce frequented labs, to investigate incidents, to consult with experts, to wage dramatic near-death matches with Gotham’s criminally insane. Dick had seen every kitschy lab safety poster, heard every spiel from researchers accompanying them into their workspaces. When Dick still sported a yellow cape, laboratory assistants watched him like a hawk, all too familiar with Robin’s acrobatics and all too willing to lecture him on the dangers of behaving foolishly in a lab.

But there wasn’t much Dick could do when he was bodily thrown against a rack of vials and Petri dishes. No amount of knowledge of eye wash stations could shelter him when it felt as if every bone in his body had shattered along with the glass around him. Still, he scrambled to his feet, slicing exposed skin where his uniform had torn. He threw himself back into the fray alongside Batman and Red Hood, never ceasing or reporting the extent of his injuries until Bane was neatly restrained and primed for pickup by GCPD.

“You’re bleeding,” Batman said. It wasn’t a question. Dick placed a hand on a gash on his thigh.

“I hit a shelf when he threw me overhead. Contusions, slight lacerations, possibly a sprained wrist. All minor,” Dick reported. Glass crunched under Red Hood’s boots as he wandered behind Dick, to investigate the wreckage of Dick’s tumble.

“Think again, Goldie,” Jason murmured. “B, put on a mask. Nightwing crash landed into a den of communicable diseases.”

Dick’s stomach dropped.

“Source?” Bruce ordered of Jason, even as he placed a mask over his mouth and nose. Jason snorted.

“They’re labeled. I’d bet this lab has a grant from the CDC, some of this shit is pretty mundane, unless-“

“Unless antibiotic resistant or viral,” Bruce finished. Both Bruce and Jason looked Nightwing up and down, at his exposed nose and mouth and at the tears in his skin and suit.

“Fuck,” Dick announced.

Bruce put Dick under surveillance in the Batcave’s quarantine unit. After 24 hours of Dick’s protesting, pleading, begging, and stable vitals, Bruce transitioned him to a more comfortable quarantine facility, in the guise of a house not far from Robinson Park. It was stocked with nonperishables, layered with disinfectant, and nigh impossible to escape without the remote which unsealed the doors and windows. The remote which Bruce kept in his utility belt.

At first, Dick thought he’d be out within a couple of days. He felt fine, he’d taken a decontamination shower, he couldn’t possibly be sick or carrying. But then the fever began.

By the third day, Dick was entangled in sweat soaked sheets, too dazed to focus on his daily video call from the family. Vaguely, Dick picked up the terse voices of Alfred and Bruce in the background as Tim rattled off updates from patrol. Dick only absorbed bits and pieces from all three, mangled together in such a way that made Dick furrow his brows and curl up tighter in his bed.

“-Poison Ivy, but Catwoman dropped in and that ended pretty anti-climatically-“

“-feed himself! This is cruel, even for-“

“-obin wanted to see you, but the Teen-“

“-dangerous! He could be Patient 0 of an antibiotic-resistant outbreak, the risk outweighs the cost. He’s fine, look at him.”

All three men zeroed in on their video feed of Dick. Dick only knew that had because of their silence; he’d long since squeezed his eyes shut against a persistent wave of muscle aches and nausea.

Even if he weren’t curled in a fetal position, Dick imagined he made quite the picture. His clothes clung to his thinning frame; he hadn’t been able to crawl out of bed to feed himself in several hours, maybe a day. Maybe two days, Time was muddled. He’d drained the glass of water by his bed and when he wasn’t wracked with pain, he gazed at it longingly as if doing so would refill it.

Bruce cleared his throat. The pain in Dick’s bones eased enough for him to uncurl and flick his eyes to the television screen. Bruce’s face had replaced Tim’s, the cowl pulled down to reveal his knitted brows.

“Dick,” Bruce said, far more gently than when Dick last heard his voice. Dick grunted his affirmative.

Bruce’s frown deepened.

“Dick,” Bruce repeated while Dick’s head thrummed, “Dick, we will be sending someone to provide care until your fever breaks.”

Dick cracked his dry lips apart to ask ‘who?’ and ‘how?’ and ‘i miss cereal, will you send some with them?’ but no sound came out so he just drooled a little instead. He closed his mouth and tried to grunt, but really just whimpered.

If Bruce replied, Dick didn’t hear him before slipping gratefully into the numbing embrace of sleep.

When Dick woke, he immediately tried to take it back and fall asleep again. But he couldn’t, not the least because of music filtering in from the kitchen. Dick squeezed his eyes shut and pulled a pillow over his head, but the music (no... the singing, someone was singing) persisted.

Dick hugged the pillow and whimpered. The singing stopped and Dick’s disease addled mind noted that whoever it was must be a meta to be able to hear such a weak noise from so far away. By the time he processed that thought, boot thumps announced The Someone’s presence right before The Someone towered in his doorframe.

“Christ, Grayson, you look worse than a dysenteric Civil War amputee whose wound just got infected,” Midnighter mused, flipping the spatula in his hand and catching it again. “Wanna spar?”

Dick grunted and let his eyes slide shut again, in the hopes that his headache would ease up. M was a good choice, Dick thought idly. Meta with a healing factor, so not as susceptible to disease, and one with a built in portal system that protected the integrity of the quarantine (and thus the surrounding neighborhood and city.)

The smell of food hit Dick, wracking Dick with mixed feelings and also a terrible thirst.

As if on a cue, Dick felt something firm prod his lips so he parted his mouth and let it rest on his tongue. Upon realizing it was a plastic straw, Dick sucked greedily. He nearly moaned when cold water hit his aching and patched throat.

“Easy, easy,” Midnighter murmured lowly, gently. “The old guy said you haven’t been eating or drinking. Take it easy or you might hurt yourself.”

Go fuck yourself, Dick wanted to say. He hadn’t chosen to get sick, and he hadn’t chosen not to eat or drink. Moving just became so hard. M wouldn’t understand, he was moving so much. He moved from the kitchen to the bedroom, he moved the glass and straw towards Dick, he had so much moving privilege.

“... I want to make to make a joke about deep throating, but I’m afraid if I do you’ll choke on it,” M muttered, almost idly. Almost.

Dick did choke. Just a little bit, but enough for M to curse and set down the water in order to free up his hands to prop Dick up while Dick coughed.

“You’re... the... worst,” Dick rasped, although a faint smile tugged at his lips.

M snorted. “Thought you’d appreciate a good double entendre; it doesn’t look like you’ve had much company.”

Dick, freed by M’s healing factor, slumped to the side, further into M’s arms.

“No,” he whispered. “Haven’t.” If Dick weren’t currently out of his mind sick, he’d have the decency to be embarrassed about rubbing his sweat into M’s definitely-leather suit. As he was, he just sighed gratefully at the human contact. M hesitated and then rubbed his back.

“How are you on food right now?”

Dick hummed, having spent most of his energy for the hour. Food could have been helpful with that, so he rasped, “yes.”

After a few mouthfuls of soup, which Dick insisted on spooning into his own mouth thankyouverymuch, Dick already began to feel a smidgen better. Or at least headed towards better, which he couldn’t have said a few hours prior.

“Apollo?” Dick asked, once had a semblance of a voice again. He obligingly drank from the water glass that M thrust at him in response.

“Didn’t want to crowd the patient,” M murmured. “He’s also a walking heater, your fever doesn’t need that right now.”

Dick pushed the empty glass away. “I like solar powered aliens,” he insisted.

“Alien experiment,” M corrected.

“Alien experiments too,” Dick murmured.

M rolled his eyes. “You can see him when your fever breaks. In the meantime you’re stuck with me.”

Dick’s television flickered alive, revealing Alfred’s face.

“And them,” M amended.

“Master Dick, it’s good to see you sitting up,” Alfred murmured. “I do not enjoy having idle hands while you perish, unwell in a prison of your father’s creation.”

“Alfred!” Bruce’s voice barked somewhere off screen. “That’s uncalled for.”

“I do apologize, sir,” Alfred murmured, not looking apologetic at all as his gaze slid off to the side. “I did set out to say ‘quarantine,’ but I must have become confused along the way. I do hope you excuse my transgression.” Without waiting for a response, Alfred returned his attention to Dick. “And how are you faring, Master Midnighter? We appreciate your time at such short notice.”

M grunted, glancing away from the screen. Unaccustomed to Alfred’s formalities, Dick mused to himself. “Fine,” M muttered. “‘S no problem. Owed him one for a favor in Marrakech.”

Dick managed a grin. “He’s helped a lot,” Dick rasped, his voice still like sandpaper against his throat. “Watering me and everything. Thanks for sending him, Alf.”

Alfred’s feature softened. “It was Master Damian’s idea. He recalled Master Midnighter’s talents and your endorsement and requested we seek him out at once.”

“Squirt fully intended to drug and drag me,” M muttered. “His intel didn’t include Apollo, so he set aside the elephant tranq long enough to talk.”

Dick flushed, even with his fever. “Damian’s... dedicated,” he offered weakly.

“Your potential for diplomacy is unerring, Master Dick. Speaking of Master Damian, I must take my leave as he is due to return soon and when he does, he will be expecting biscuits.”

With that, the screen cut.

“Isn’t there an off button?” M grumbled. “Or can they just pop in like that whenever?”

Dick laid back down and nestled in the sheets. “Whenever. You can cover the webcam.”

M grunted and set out to do so immediately. He couldn’t find any duct tape, so he settled on layering medical tape instead. When he finished, he abandoned his duster to the kitchen table and pulled up a kitchen chair so that he could sit beside Dick’s bed.

“Do you need something to help you sleep?” M asked. “Cough syrup, acetaminophen, lidocaine?”

Dick tried to snort, but it hurt too much so he just mumbled a, “nuh-huh. ‘M good.” Dick wanted to be a better host, but once again he slipped away as easily as sand through fingers.

When he came to, there was a fresh set of clothes waiting for him on the bedside table. Dick scrunched his nose. Midnighter appeared in the doorway, glass of water in one hand and a plate of toast in the other. Since Dick had last seen him, M had completely shed his usual uniform in favor of a tank top and jeans.

Dick opened his mouth to comment on M’s civvies, but now sound came out. He flicked wild eyes to M and tried again. Nothing. M had the audacity to chuckle.

“Lost your voice, Grayson? I’ll make you some hot tea after your shower.”

Dick glared at him and sunk lower into the bed sheets. He did feel sticky and gross, but the idea of getting up to shower seemed a monumental task and also when did he lose his voice?

M tsked. “Don’t act like I killed your butler. Hot water will help your sinuses, and you’re gross.”

Dick must have looked aghast because M laughed. Dick freed his hands from the tangle of blankets to sign, ‘No. Won’t stand.’

M blinked. “Eat your toast and then we’ll negotiate.”

Dick conceded, but he ate comically slow, just to see M’s jaw tighten. When the toast was gone, Dick extended his antics to the glass of water, taking minute sips even though he wanted to down the entire glass. M smirked and placed two fingers underneath the glass, forcing it to tip into Dick’s mouth faster. Dick missed the straw.

The plate and glass empty, Dick had no other choice but to burrow as deep into his pile of blankets as he could go.

“Out of deference to you, my favorite nemesister,” M began, standing and cracking his knuckles. “I’m going to give you thirty seconds to come quietly.”

Dick wiggled his hand free of the blanket cocoon to flip M his middle finger. M sighed.

“Don’t go whining to Apollo or Daddy about what’s about to happen,” he warned. “I gave you a chance to cooperate.”

Dick snaked his hand back into the bedding right before M sauntered over and unrolled Dick as if he weighed nothing.

If fighting off M while well was hell, fighting off M while sick was just pitiful. Within seconds, Dick could only resort to going deadweight while M carried his limp body to the bathroom. M didn’t seem to notice.

M poured Dick onto the plush carpet and began running a bath.

“I’m going to drop you into the tub, and you’re not going to drown. Capiche?”

Dick stuck his tongue out. M snorted and then added some sort of salt to the bath that filled the room with a sharp scent. Dick didn’t know the sign for “eucalyptus” so he settled with, ‘Koala?’

M snorted. “Yeah. Helps with sinuses. You gonna undress or do you want me to do it for you?”

Dick wiggled out of his clothes on his own, any modesty lost around M ever since Russia, and he gently poked at the bath. He wrinkled his nose.

‘Hot,’ he signed.

“I’m going to touch you. Are you okay with that?”

Dick tilted his head. ‘Yes.’

M scooped Dick up and dropped him in the bath. Dick would have squawked, if he had a voice. Instead he just sunk into the water and glared at M.

“See? Not too hot, you just needed immersion therapy.”

Dick sunk lower into the water and closed his eyes. It did feel nice after days of marinating in his own sweat.

“Don’t pass out, Grayson,” M warned. “I’m going to run out for a few minutes. You gonna keep yourself from drowning?”

Dick nodded and shot M a thumbs up. M scratched the top of Dick’s head and disappeared through a Door that he called just behind Dick’s vision. Dick’s stirred stomach was grateful.

Despite his promise to M, Dick found himself drifting in and out. Eventually he blearily opened his eyes to see M’s face, inches from his own. He belatedly flinched.

“Told you not to fall asleep, Grayson,” M chided. “Time to come out, the little one threatened to thoroughly disembowel me if I didn’t show you to him, and I respect a kid who can efficiently work a tanto into someone’s gut.”

Dick made a face. “Ew,” he managed. “Did someone give Damian a knife?” He added.

M shook his head. “This ain’t a US military dagger; it’s an honest Japanese short sword. Yoroi-doshi, too. Could puncture a car door.” M smiled wistfully. Dick frowned.

“What? No. Lemme see him,” Dick whispered as he sluggishly stood up. He swayed, but M caught him in a fluffy towel.

With a little help, Dick got dried and dressed. He shuffled into the bedroom, where Damian’s scowl loomed. The tape had been removed from the camera, and Damian’s expression softened a smidgen as Dick came into view.

“He isn’t behaving untowardly, is he, Grayson?” Damian demanded. “I warned him.”

M rolled his eyes and Dick snorted faintly.

“No, he’s behaving,” Dick rasped. “You should behave too. B know about the sword?”

The two talked until Dick felt his voice slip away again. Damian hesitated to cut the video feed, but after a sidelong glare at M, conceded. When the call ended, Dick flopped onto the bed.

“Tired,” Dick hissed.

“I know,” M mused. “That’s the most you’ve moved in three days.”

Dick pat the bed beside him. M shook his head and wiggled the comforter out from under Dick so that he could drape it over Dick instead.

“Bed,” Dick demanded, catching M’s wrist in a frail grip. M shook him off.

“Go to sleep, Grayson,” M murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Dick frowned and pat the bed again. “Please?”

M considered arguing further, but he’d already fought that fight in his head, in a million different ways. He knew how it ended each time.

M crawled into bed beside Dick, and tugged him close.

 


End file.
